


Eye of the beholder

by EnlacingLines



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sylvix Big Bang (Fire Emblem)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnlacingLines/pseuds/EnlacingLines
Summary: Inside, he is a twisted, grotesque thing. The beast his brother became is exactly who Sylvain is too, they are after all from the same stock. He hides it behind falseness and a charming smile, well styled hair and chiselled features. It’s a beautiful mask, but the inside will reveal itself one day.There is one problem. Felix thinks he is beautiful.Or: the five times Felix called Sylvain beautiful, and the one time Sylvain believed him.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 269
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	Eye of the beholder

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to share my Sylvix Big Bang fic! I had the absolute honour of working with the lovely Lumi, who has created SIX art pieces to go with this story. I can't express how happy I am, thank you so much Lumi everything, it's been so wonderful <3 Please take the time to check out her work. 
> 
> Thank you to Cosmic Blades for making the lovely Twitter cover, and MxTicketyBoo for betaing. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sylvain remembers the first time someone commented on his looks. He was six; he recalls it was a mere day after his birthday, still wearing the shiny black boots he’d been gifted. He’d skipped along to begin with, until his father had scolded him, told him to act like a man, even thought Sylvain was a boy and just liked his new shoes. 

“What a gorgeous little boy!” 

The exclamation startles him into looking up. Teeth grin, pearly trappings shaped into an expression which puts him on edge, his feet shuffling closer to his father. The praiser watches him, dark eyes, bright teeth, no joy. 

“With a Crest and already so pretty, he’ll attract a good wife,” they say. 

“He certainly will,” he father retorts, a glow in his tone which spreads into Sylvain; warmth and belonging, knowing that for some reason, he’s gained his father’s approval, even if he doesn’t understand how. 

There are other moments in childhood that remain in his mind a decade later. His governess, who told him not to frown at his textbooks, lest it caused wrinkles to his flawless skin. His mother, before she passed on, calling him her beautiful boy when he presented her with a drawing. The cook who said his face was angelic and gave him extra sweets when no one was looking. 

Early on he realised his looks were special. They held power, some mystical thing that he could not control or really understand when he looked in the mirror himself. It was just his face, his hair, his eyes, no different than before. But the praise and the tiny treats bolstered him a little, and he was happy, for the most part. 

He found if he smiled in the right way, others did too. Sylvain had always been good at reading others, and the more time he spends talking to people, the easier it gets. It helps he enjoys being around others; when his mother died, home became bleak and without solace, his brother retreating day by day as his father only talks of matters he doesn’t quite grasp. 

Ingrid’s grandmother calls him a ‘seducer’ at eight. He doesn’t know what that word means, but she laughs as she says it, so he thinks it must be good. Miklan, though, does not share that view point. 

“Not so pretty now,” he’ll say when his taunts become physical, small ruins to Sylvain’s body at first, which move to his face. 

It’s ideal timing, meticulously planned, for he begins when Sylvain is being taught to fight, so they are simply passed off as mock battle wounds. But of course, they are not. He stares at himself in the glass each night: scratches, nicks, burns, welts, a black eye and bloody nose. Little things that mar his looks, all blessings from his brother, that teach him the greatest lessons he needs to know. 

Beauty isn’t a gift. 

He grows and learns this well. His looks are praised with a caveat: that he will use them to win a wife and produce an heir with a Crest, that he is blessed with money and a pretty face, that he can go far with such charm, such power and such status. 

It all means nothing. He realises it when he’s thirteen, and doesn’t speak at a party. Not a word, for hours. Nods, smiles, dances and laughs but adds little to conversation. And it’s a perfectly successful evening. His father lists the women who proposed interest, ranked them by a scale of his own choosing and decides on two who may be of marriageable status. He commended Sylvain for helping him with his own political aims. 

Which confirmed his thoughts: Sylvain in himself is unimportant. His thoughts, his ideas, his options and interests, all the parts which knit together to create the person he is are not worth anything to anyone in his life. 

Realising this is truth rather than speculation hits him hard. He retreats, falls back on automatic lines and practised words to all he meets. They notice no difference, this shell of who he is walking day by day, smiling and flirting, seducing and promising lies. It makes no change what he feels inside, if he’s there or not.

And none of the women he speaks with care. They want to stare into his eyes and imagine the wealth and prosperity they’ll gain from him. It wears him thin, makes the world seem darker, less full of purpose and interest. And yet they do not notice him wavering, slipping in and out of reality as it fails to keep him interested. Where he zones out to, he cannot say. He just in and then is not, with no one missing him. 

He nearly dies several times. His gorgeous smile doesn’t stop his brother’s beatings, having hair like sunrise doesn’t help him when he’s trapped in a well, and his eyes which someone could just dive into don’t lead him home during a blizzard. 

He hates them, these women and occasionally men who slither and slide their way into his life, attempting to get into his good graces. And he hates that he seeks them out, responds and carries on, just in case he feels something, anything in a pinch to break out of the isolation and numbness he feels, day in day out. 

His face has never looked beautiful to him, but the older he gets, the more Sylvain sees ugliness in his reflection. When he smiles he sees the lies he’s told to flatter and please; in his eyes he sees the persistent thoughts of hatred for his family, jealousy for those who do not have to live this way. Every comment and compliment just adds another mar, another layer of hideousness to the person he is. 

He plays to them as he doesn’t know how else to behave. He’s been told so many times he’s attractive, he pretends he sees it too, and takes pride in his appearance. Does not mention the dreams of scraping off his own skin, piece by piece, until the real him is revealed. 

Inside, he is a twisted, grotesque thing. The beast his brother became is exactly who Sylvain is too, they are after all from the same stock. He hides it behind falseness and a charming smile, well styled hair and chiselled features. It’s a beautiful mask, but the inside will reveal itself one day. 

Except, others seem to think otherwise. His Professor is the first to notice, her eerie ability to see through them all coming into play. She is the first one to call his lines what they are and not allow him to slip into his persona of a dim-witted philanderer. But it’s not just her; the others in the Blue Lions eke out parts of him he wants to exist but didn’t know were more than fabrications. Their delight and surprise when he is genuine gives him pause; as if they are genuinely excited, relieved or glad to see who he is underneath the mask. 

Which is concerning, and odd. He’s never until now been valued for anything he produces outside of his skin: not for his intellect, his thoughts on writing or what his favourite food might be. Even his oldest friends, who once seemed to categorise him in the same way, begin to see another side of him kept locked away. 

Felix, in particular, reaches out and pulls at parts of him he’s tried to keep buried and lost, for they seemed so useless before. But in typical Felix fashion he doesn’t care for niceties, and strikes to the heart of the matter. He informs Sylvain of his distaste for his actions, but still drags him to training and demands they practice together. They share time, space and meals together, and despite it all, Felix never seems to see the hideousness. Doesn’t notice Sylvain turning into his brother on the inside, doesn’t want to distance himself from the monster in the making. 

Even to the point where he kisses Sylvain. On the day of their five year reunion, as soon as they are alone Sylvain is pushed up against the wall and practically thrown into a kiss, full of more want and need than any experience he’s ever had in twenty-four years of living. It’s short, but they are both left gasping, worlds opening and closing, hands twitching, itching to reach out and feel once again. 

And they do. It’s like they cannot stop thereafter, magnetically drawn to each other's sides, puzzle pieces with a final placing. Sylvain has never known this type of affection before, and falls deeper down, drowning and spinning into this new and terrifying world, a lightness in the midst of war and strife. 

There is one problem. Felix thinks he is beautiful. 

**1: Blood**

Demonic beasts are always a fierce opponent. It takes coordination to ensure they manage to defeat the enemy, as well as protect those unable to strike, the constant change of the battle an additional difficulty. Sylvain personally always struggles, every beast seemingly like his brother, every strike reminding him of that day now so long ago. 

This particular day is brutal, multiple beasts of various forms appearing from mists, Marianne entirely separated from their group. While the Professor and Dimitri strike forward to reach her, Sylvain guards the rear, beast after beast emerging from a place he cannot see. 

It’s cold, which Sylvain is used to, but it’s also permanently damp, not quite raining but in the air, making the ground slippery and reducing the effects of magic, not to mention the lack of visibility. But they persevere, all of them, through the near misses and the actual hits, picking each other up and uniting against mindless, vicious foes. 

The call comes through the lines that Marianne is safe, and as it reaches Sylvain, he strikes forward with his weapon at the creature before him. It’s neck severs, drenching the Lance of Ruin and himself in a spray of blood and viscous fluid, as it plummets to the ground. He grimaces, his armour sticky, but as he does, Ingrid lands beside him. 

“Excellent hit. The battle’s over, they just took down the last of them,” she says, giving him as much of an encouraging smile as possible when there's blood clotting at her temple. 

Sylvain smiles in return, then scans the battlefield, taking stock of his friends. A flash of a golden sword alerts him to Felix’s presence, and his throat unclogs a little. Some of their party are worse for wear than others, but in general there’s not much time to do anything other than treat the wounded as much as possible and leave. Sylvain is sticky and disgusting but he says nothing, all of them quiet and consumed by their own thoughts. 

Felix falls into step beside him as they reach the monastery, thankfully with no further assaults from man or beast. In the past months, attacks away from staged conflicts have dwindled and as they finally make slow progress against the empire. They are all as vigilant as ever, eyes forever scanning the shadows, scarred by five years of being on constant watch. 

The debrief is short, and Sylvain doesn’t hear much of it, itching to clean up and pass out as his body and mind slowly begin to disengage. As they are dismissed, Felix pulls on his arm, grabbing him and marching them quickly to what used to be the infirmary. It’s more a habit and a need for privacy than utility. This area had been damaged five years prior, a huge blast hole in the wall being the most obvious change. 

They have a new area set up for those severely wounded, and most people tend to lick their own scratches in private. But that has the downside of being seen by others, accompanied and checked on, all well meaning and caring, but right now Sylvain cannot stand to be around anyone else but Felix, and their room provides no solace. He can’t recall exactly when they’d decided to combine themselves into one space, but perhaps that’s for the best, a natural flow of coming together. 

“Sit,” Felix says, as soon as they enter. It takes effort for Sylvain to understand where he is pointing, a sign of exactly how much his senses are failing. He hauls himself over to the wooden chair, and sits heavily. 

The dark is rising, the sky more ink with a hint of mauve than the depths of night they’d fought in. Dawn is closer than midnight, but the light is not enough, so he summons the strength to ignite the candles, the glow making the room warmer and more reminiscent of what it used to be than the shell it really is. 

Immediately, Felix approaches, a bowl of washing water in his hand, now gently steaming. He places it on the desk before leaning over Sylvain to start unclasping his armour. Sylvain jolts at the sudden touch, vision sharpening and raising his hand. 

“I can do it,” he says, but Felix bats his arm away. 

“Just stay still,” Felix chides, and Sylvain lowers his hand, that tone leaving no room for argument. 

Slowly, Felix removes his armor, the metal dull with stains too hideous to think about, and Sylvain grimaces, stomach rolling slightly at the mess he’d not been able to fully see. Felix steps over it, then picks up a cloth and the now perfectly warmed water, raising it surprisingly to Sylvain’s face. As it touches his cheek he hisses, nerves alight with instant sparks of pain so bright he jerks away and has to take a moment to breathe. 

“Acid burn, I can see it through the blood. When did it catch you?” Felix says, voice soft as he bends down, resting his hands on Sylvain’s knees. Sylvain blinks tears away, then turns and clears his throat. 

“Didn’t actually realise. Fucking hurts now though, thanks Felix,” he says, and Felix rolls his eyes. 

“Of course you didn’t pay more attention. There’s salve in the drawers if I remember rightly. If not, Annette can make some. Have to clean you up though first,” he says, and Sylvain tenses, but Felix’s hand finds his, wrapping around it before he can clench within himself. 

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and Sylvain glances across, Felix’s eyes trained on him, waiting, expecting. As soon as they meet he leans forward, kisses Sylvain once, so soft and fleeting it could have been imagined. But all of this is so very real, by the scent of blood still in the air, by the way Felix still reaches for him, always reaches for him when he thinks he’s about to fade away. 

“Don’t worry, your pristine skin will be fine,” he says, pressing the cloth carefully into Sylvain’s cheek as he speaks. 

It’s not as raw a hurt now that he’s expecting it, but it still makes him flinch. However, it’s Felix’s words which truly rock him. 

He scoffs. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. Part of him strangely wants a burn scar, wants some part of him turned and morphed from the war. He has a few scars already, they all do, for skin and bone do not knit together correctly once separated. But nothing that would leave lasting, memorable damage. 

Felix does not comment nor stop in his ministrations, simply continues in the same gentle manner as the water and cloth turn diluted crimson and grey. His eyes flicker across in the same manner, thorough and rigorous in their searching. Sylvain has only ever seen this focus on weaponry, and it warms his previously chilled heart to be under such care and attention. 

He places the bowl and cloth down then rises back to the same height of Sylvain, cupping his cheek, thumb hovering lightly over the sight of the burn. Sylvain cannot help the movement of his eyes as they flutter shut, doll like in his automatic reaction, falling into the caress. 

“You’ll be fine, and still beautiful,” Felix says, soft and against his ear, like all these touches so far have been. Delicate. Intimate. Caring. An antithesis to the battle and to Sylvain himself. He opens his eyes, watching as Felix turns, his own torn clothing still on, his own bruises still untended to as he goes in search of the salve. 

He thinks Sylvain is beautiful, but he cannot believe Felix. Not when he’s really only a shade away from those beasts whose life is still spilled on his armor. He trusts Felix with his life, his heart and his soul, but on this one thing, he doesn’t trust his opinion. 

But he says nothing, simply waits until Felix turns around and smiles. Offers him all he can without words, for words are empty letters strung together without thought. And Felix smiles back, if looking somewhat confused at the switch in tangent. But a small moment of respite, and to see Felix looking tired but content, is enough for now. 

They stay there on Sylvain’s insistence, watching the sunrise over their broken home. Yet somehow, despite the chaos of the night, Sylvain’s sores and the rubble by their feet, it is more wonderful than any sunrise he can recall.

* * *

  
  


**2\. Nightmares**

Sylvain learned early on no one would come when he cried at night. At first he tried, bawling his eyes out under the covers, hoping someone would notice or care. Even after they didn’t, it still seemed like the only reaction, the only release from the terrors which chased him into wakefulness. 

After a time though, he just stops. There is no release from the nightmares, they still jump and bite any chance they get. It doesn’t matter how hard he cries, how much he wishes for a warm embrace or words of comfort, nothing will come. His father hates tears, thinks they are unbecoming, his brother loves them, but only when he is the one creating that reaction. 

But just because he decides not to cry in the wake of the dreams doesn’t mean they don’t affect him. He still wakes, shaking and sweaty, and at times face wet with tears he could not control in sleep. Some nights he thrashes so hard he scratches himself, and others his throat hurts from screams which no one hears. It can take minutes or hours for the shadow of the terrors to pass, even if he cannot remember what he saw.

War does not help this. Although he’s been dealing with nightly visitors for most of his years, he’s not immune to new, developing fears. He sees his friends dead, or the lands on fire, their screams piercing while he is too far away to help. 

The more he cares, the more he loves, the more he has to lose. And it’s that which the nightmares prey on. 

He isn’t the only one; he’d sat with Annette after she woke up screaming on their way back to the monastery, has spent nights awake with Ashe and the Professor as both would rather be awake than sleeping. All of them have heard Dimitri cry out, and no one judges or minds. 

Sylvain though, can’t help but feel weaker when it occurs. Perhaps as he’s spent so much of his life running from his own mind in sleep, he feels he should be used to this by now. Perhaps as he spends as much time as he can trying to comfort others, he hates seeing himself fall. Or maybe, it’s as now not just his own rest is affected. 

Felix is a light sleeper, and seems to be able to function remarkably well on little sleep, but Sylvain is disturbed at how often he has only a few hours of rest before a full day. So since they’ve started sharing a bed, he tries to persuade Felix to relax once their day is done, to stay in bed for longer with the promise of warmth and care. 

He cannot promise an end to nightmares though. 

Their time in war is hopefully drawing to a close. The Imperial forces are scattering, and they have only to directly confront Edelgard and victory is theirs. Not that it feels like a triumph; so much blood spilt, so much death and loss in their minds. At this point, Sylvain is just eager for an end. Then they can mourn and hopefully rebuild in a way that makes the distance between the next inevitable conflict as wide as possible; as he is not so naive to believe there will never be another.

But even the prospect of a potential end does not ease his mind, for he wakes, scream echoing and hands cupping his jaw as he tries to fight the grip, unsure where it’s coming from. 

“Sylvain. Hey, Sylvain! It’s me, it’s okay.” 

For a minute, he cannot see, vision swimming and shaded with spectres of his mind’s conjuring, until the world rights and the dim light of the room comes into view. Felix sits over Sylvain’s knees, now gripping his shoulders, hair wild and face pale in the almost darkness. 

Sylvain would normally be thankful for the half light of the magically lit candle and it’s soothing glow highlighting his boyfriend’s features, but now it casts too many shadows which have the potential to bite and chase. 

But Felix is grounding, fingers tensing into the meat of his shoulder, kneading out tension as he keeps Sylvain in his sight. 

“You’re awake. You’re in the monastery. It’s not real, Sylvain. It’s not real,” Felix says, and although his words are soft, they may as well be shouted with how hyper aware Sylvain is of every sense. 

He inhales, but it’s difficult, chest rattling and convulsing as he coughs hard. Felix moves then as he doubles over, choking on a raw throat and swallowing hard on spit which he just about catches. His eyes spill over as he does, and Felix rubs his back soothingly. He must have already cried for the new tears to meet others, and once his breathing has stabilized, he swipes at his eyes and sniffs, rubbing them on the sleeve of his sleep shirt. 

He clears his throat and turns to the side where Felix is sitting, still waiting patiently for him to calm. His arm rests over Sylvain’s shoulders, he tilts his body so that he’s resting against Felix, inhaling the scent of sleep and home. 

“I don’t remember what that was,” he says, another stray tear falling, and Felix shuffles them down so they’re lying, side by side, hands clasped between. 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not there. You’re with me,” Felix says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, the easiest banishment whispered between them. 

And in a way, it is. Sylvain’s mind has always been a trap, full of memories and potential what ifs, mostly clinging to disaster. So he smiles, and clutches Felix’s hand tighter. 

“My knight in shining armour, protecting me from dreams,” he says, and Felix rolls his eyes. 

“If that helps you sleep,” he says, in a strange mix of exasperation and truth. Sylvain knows Felix would fight tooth and nail against his imaginary foes if possible. Just as he would do the same. 

Felix sighs and curls his hand into Sylvain’s hair, soothing him down and ushering him back to a place of rest. He knows by now what will help Sylvain sleep, what guides him and aids him, the comfort he sleeps. 

“I’m not going anywhere, so get your beauty sleep. Although you don’t need it,” Felix adds. 

Sylvain shakes his head. He’s crying, snotty and a little sweaty from the nightmare, he absolutely needs beauty sleep, if such a thing were possible. But there is no accounting for taste and any type of rest is what he craves right now. 

It takes him a while to fall asleep, but it eases his worries when Felix manages to sleep before he does. With his hair framing his face, relaxed and soft in slumber, Sylvain cannot stop staring. A strand of dark hair falls, and Felix’s breath pushes it out in the most adorable way, until Sylvain cannot hold back, and sweeps it away. As he does, Felix mumbles and snuggles closer, Sylvain having to swallow against the rising emotion that threatens to overcome. He knows there is only one person here who is truly beautiful, and he’s grateful to be able to sleep beside them.

* * *

  
**3\. Sickness**

It’s just his luck that the night before they are due to return home, Sylvain is sick. Not just a little bit sick either; he’s currently face first in a bucket, stomach cramping every few seconds even though it is, by now, empty. 

It’s been hours. Or it seems so, he can’t stop heaving and his whole body is shaking with the effort of trying to expel this sickness. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this ill, and since they are at the palace, it’s not going to be something he ate. 

Or maybe it is, who knows. Thinking of food isn’t helping matters though, so he just concentrates on the cool feeling of the bathroom floor beneath his feet, the only comfort in the moment. 

There’s a knock on the door. “Sylvain? Open up.” 

“Go. Away,” he says, managing to enunciate every word clearly, before bile rises through his throat. 

He coughs but manages not to gag, and groans as he leans to the side, barely resisting dropping fully to the floor. Although he’d love to be lying there right now, he's not sure he’ll be able to sit up again if he does, which is quite frankly dangerous.

“Sylvain!” Felix yells, this time the door actually shakes with the impact of his fist. 

Sylvain groans again. He loves Felix with every part of him able to feel, tells him so every night and morning, the first and last thing he says. He loves Felix when he’s tired, sad, full of joy or contentment, and even when that stubborn aggrieved tone enters his voice as it is now. 

But he’ll be damned if he’ll let Felix see him vomiting like this.

There’s just something too vulnerable about being sick that he can’t stand for someone else to see. He feels wretched, and usually that would come with a craving for comfort but not now; now he would like to lie here and cease to exist in anyone else's' mind until the illness has passed. 

Except he’s dating Felix Fraldarius, so this was never an option. 

“Sylvain, if you don’t let me in, I will blast down this door,” Felix says, and Sylvain inches himself up from the bowl with an incredible effort. 

It’s not an empty threat, and Sylvain does not want to have to explain to Dimitri why they’ve been blowing up the very nice guest quarters after their first stay, so he resigns himself to having to deal with this. 

“Give me a moment,” he says thickly, hoping his voice carries. There’s no more yelling or blasting, so Sylvain assumes Felix has heard. 

He sits up on his knees, world tilting nauseatingly, but manages to stop himself from retching. Sweat beads at his temple, his shirt already sticking to him from the effort of the illness coursing through. He really doesn’t want to let Felix in. A sensible part of his mind states that it will help; he’s clearly unwell enough to need medicine and help, but that part is squashed down by the overwhelming fear of having Felix see him like this. 

Which is stupid. Felix has seen him bleed out on the ground, pass out with exhaustion due to overuse of magic and been with him through the worst parts of his life. This should be nothing in comparison. Yet it's a step he wasn’t ready for, the world forcing his hand. 

His stomach rolls, and Sylvain knows there is only so much time until he has to get back down to his bucket, so he stumbles to his feet, catching onto the sink as he does. He grimaces as he sees his reflection in the mirror. His skin has taken on a sallow tone, shining with sweat and eyes ringed in shadow. His lips are strangely blue and-oh goddess there’s vomit on his collar. 

He splashes his face with water and wipes down his collar, but it makes little difference. The coolness helps for a moment but in general he feels just as awful. And he looks it too, appears worse than he feels, if that’s even possible. 

_Better get this over with_ , he thinks then staggers to the door, which he immediately knows is a terrible plan by the way his body convulses. He fights the feeling just enough to throw open the door, getting a glimpse of Felix’s surprised face before he turns and skids back to the floor in time to retch into the bucket. 

It’s just bile by now but it hurts; his throat is raw and tired, and tears threaten in his eyes as his stomach cramps with every clench of movement in an attempt to rid himself of whatever is causing these issues. He’s so consumed with the revolt of his body that he doesn’t notice Felix’s approach until there is a hand pressed against his forehead, skin cool against his own feverish brow. 

“It’s okay, my love,” Felix murmurs, a new term of endearment usually gratefully received, but now Sylvain just wishes to hide from all sight. 

It takes a moment, but Sylvain’s body relaxes and he slumps downwards. Felix is there to catch him, carefully pulling him upwards and holding him close for a moment while Sylvain lolls his head towards Felix’s shoulder on instinct. He tries to jerk up when he realises, but Felix holds him there for a second, before shifting to the side so he can see Sylvain clearly. 

His eyes crease in concern as he lifts his hand to smooth Sylvain’s hair from his forehead. Sylvain allows the comfort of the touch, even though part of him is screaming to move away, to not let Felix subject himself to touching him while he’s this disgusting. But the touch seems deeply necessary when he’s been dealing with this for the past few hours.

“Let’s get you up,” Felix says, and Sylvain shakes his head slowly. 

“My body does not like walking,” he says, and Felix tucks another lock of hair behind his ear. 

“I’ll help, you’ll be better lying down in bed,” he says. 

Usually Sylvain would make some sort of quip, but it’s a testament to how groggy he is that his mind can’t even piece one together. Felix helps to haul him up and Sylvain clasps his hand over his mouth as they stumble to the bed. But it seems his stomach has finally realised there is nothing left, for he makes it back to bed without incident. 

He collapses, head spinning, and Felix tuts behind him. 

“Don’t do that, get in properly, come on,” he says, although his movements are gentle when he helps Sylvain rearrange his limbs into a half seated position, propped up by pillows. 

“Stay,” Felix warns before walking away, and Sylvain blinks after him, mourning the loss instantly. But Felix does not go far, returning with a glass of water. 

“Drink,” he says, and Sylvain manages a glare, annoyed he’s now turned into some sort of command animal, but the water is soothing, even if his abused throat and stomach isn’t able to take much. 

He sits back on the pillows, closing his eyes and willing his stomach to keep the water down when he feels the bed dip. Felix comes to lay beside him, quiet as Sylvain stabilises himself. When he opens his eyes Felix shifts and Sylvain turns slightly to his side so they can face one another. 

“When did it get this bad?” Felix asks, hand immediately going to Sylvain’s hair. 

“A few hours ago, when you were in the meeting,” he admits, and Felix’s frown deepens. 

“You should have sent for me,” he says seriously, and Sylvain sighs. 

“I just...I didn’t want you to see me...like this,” he says slowly, unsure how to explain exactly how unnerving this has been. 

“What?” Felix says, clearly shocked by his reasoning. Sylvain gestures to himself, attempting a smile. 

“I’m a mess,” is all he can come up with to explain it. 

Felix blinks then shakes his head moving closer so Sylvain can rest on him, immediately curling up on his chest and sighing as Felix speaks into his hair. 

“You aren’t, Sylvain. You’re unwell, really unwell and you can barely stand alone. That’s not a mess,” he says. 

Sylvain swallows an emotion far stronger than sickness which churns up. He’s never had this, never been taken care of outside of battle. His welfare has always been tied directly to his ability to do as instructed, and never just for his own sake. He curls his hand in Felix’s shirt, who kisses the top of his head. 

“Go to sleep, you beautiful idiot. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere,” he says, fond even through insult. 

Sylvain closes his eyes, burying deep and feeling his body relax at the mere promise of Felix being by his side. Although he scoffs internally at the wording; only Felix could try and appease him by pretending he’s beautiful at a time like this. 

* * *

  
**4.Mud**

He’s been away from home for moons. He stopped counting the days at ten and marked the time by duty and conflict, and when the skirmishes died down, the planning and the rebuilding of the towns closest to the Sreng and Gautier border took precedence. 

It’s been difficult, but wonderful. Sylvain’s aims for as long as he could recall involved making peace with the people of Sreng, and it’s taken until now with his father’s declining health and influence, for him to be able to fulfil this. Although he hasn’t fully taken on the mantle of Margave, his father stubborn to the end and denouncing his son’s capacity for more reasons than Sylvain wants to think about, everyone defers to him on all matters. 

They are still not officially at peace, His Highness still holding out hope for a treaty to be signed by the end of the year, and Sylvain is almost certain it will come to pass. But they asked for his aid in securing some of their border towns from both the harshness of winter and bandits from both sides, and Sylvain obliged. Partly in anger at his own people for this, and partly out of the general want to help. 

But now he is heading home. Winter reigns, but still somehow due to the few battles and the need to dig both trenches and areas for new homes, he’s splattered with mud and grime, which in his haste to return he hasn’t bothered to remove from his armour. The area nearmost the border crossing is in disarray, but now safe, so their caravan moves through muddied areas that even the overnight frost hasn’t managed to penetrate. 

He marches towards Gautier, tired, dirty but more relieved than ever to see the beginnings of home. 

It’s only in the past few years that he’s ‘home’ has become synonymous with his estate. Growing up he would have given anything to escape it’s trappings, the return from any schooling or visit bringing dread to his soul as he made his way across this very pathway, the only route to the estate. 

But the world is different now. He is different now. He’s transformed his estate both in look and his mental viewpoint of to mean it is something that’s a joy to return to. He’s made sure the attendants have good living spaces, big enough for their families to stay for as long as they like. He’s gotten rid of outdated prideful demonstrations of battles won, replaced by local artists and displaying more ornate swords...which shows the influence of a certain person in his life. 

There is a lot of Felix in what he’s done, as in many ways he is a model. Sylvain knows how deeply the Fraldarius estate haunts him, and on return from the war he abruptly made swift changes just so he could exist there. Sylvain has done the same. The rooms he frequents are almost more of their rooms now, trinkets of their shared and separate lives dotted around and displayed, Felix’s spicy teas always on hand and enough spare furs and firewood stocked for when the cold blooded Duke would visit. 

But Felix’s rooms are much the same. A mare of Sylvain’s own stored there for riding that Felix pretends he just endures but really Sylvain knows he relishes, his favourite sweets in a jar, untouched since his last visit, and things he deposited there years ago just taking up space. The odd piece of clothing he thinks may get wear even when he’s not staying, a secret he allows Felix to keep. Two homes, two lives, and both he cannot wait to return to. 

He’s missed it. Missed these routes he knows, the places he frequents and familiar faces. One person, of course, he has missed so greatly, the letters in his pack seeming to burn a hole in the fabric with their importance. Parchment and ink cannot replace actual conversation, touch and care. Felix has always been an avid letter writer, and would send his father missives throughout their academy days, all on his own stead and not as he once claimed, due to Rodrigue demanding it. 

Sylvain enjoys correspondance. There’s something romantic, touching about crafting a letter; having time to think of which words would be prettiest strung together, convey his sentiments precisely, a project to ensure he shows Felix just how much he loves and misses him. But that novelty wore off long ago, and although these have been his only comfort, they are nothing when compared to the real presence of his partner. 

He will be seeing Felix by the end of the week. Once news of his arrival was announced, Felix confirmed he'd ride from Fraldarius, as Sylvain had been away from Gautier too long. It is this longing and knowledge which at first he believes is fueling what he sees as they round into the entrance of the manor. But as the vision does not fade, he urges on his horse, breaking away from the group of soldiers who laugh and call out as he rides, smile growing. 

The greeting party solidifies as they draw closer, the figure at the center who Sylvain tunnel visions as he canters forward, smile widening with each beat of the horse’s stride until his cheeks ache in the frosted air. 

Felix doesn’t move, hair spinning wildly in the wayward breeze, chin dipped into the fur of his cloak, bundled against the bitterness of Gautier winter. He has always felt the cold, always needing the most layers, and Sylvain craves the huge fireplace in his chambers and a blanket to wrap Felix in, just the silence of the fire roaring and the warmth of the man he loves his only companions. 

“What are you grinning about?” Felix calls, and Sylvain laughs as Felix’s horse moves from his guards, who are doing no better than Sylvain’s own men in keeping their merriment to themselves.

“Oh, nothing much, just my darling partner meeting me on a cold, bitter day outside my home. The usual,” he says, and Felix tuts, horses aligned. 

He leans in, cupping Sylvain’s cheek with a gloved hand. Those eyes, goddess, has he missed that gaze so bright and bold, every flicker a glimpse into the core of him, brimming with more than Felix likes to understand. He holds himself in his eyes, and Sylvan could stay permanently in their light, be swallowed and never return, just to be nearer to all that he is. 

“Didn’t bother shaving, again. How are you so beautiful, even after all this,” he murmurs, so quiet Sylvain thinks he must have imagined the sentiment, if it wasn’t for the fact Felix is not one to create such comments unless he means them astutely. 

He pulls back. “You must be exhausted, and don’t keep us all in the cold. Let’s go inside,” he says, and Sylvain nods, heading to the stables before he manages to sweep Felix into a greeting kiss, chaste for the public setting but a promise of a reunion behind closed doors as soon as he can craft it. 

As he makes his way into the estate, he catches sight of himself in one of the long mirrors lining the hall. He stops for a moment, Felix words returning. His eyes are shadowed, heavy from the weeks of uneven sleep, hair unkempt and in need of a wash, too long and hanging limply over one side. The beard as mentioned has grown in, giving him more of a look of someone in need of a bath than a rugged hero. 

And then there is the mud. A stripe on his cheek, all over his armour, even possibly in his hair. He is, in a word, a disaster. No one could mistake him for anything close to beautiful this morning. 

He grimaces, turning away. He needs to clean up, and make himself presentable before he can find a blanket to curl up with Felix. 

* * *

  
**5.Crying**

The ceremony was nice, that he will admit. The tributes of those who spoke at the Margrave’s funeral were full of acknowledgements his father would have been proud to hear. Mentions of his use of the Lance of Ruin in days gone by, of protecting the Kingdom, although no one dared recount the battles against Sreng; all of that time is transposed into something new with Sylvain. 

He is the new Margave, now in full title and inheritance rather than just assumed by all who know them. Dimitri will do some sort of ceremony, but not yet. And Sylvain is thankful for that, as he stands in a grey dulled afternoon, like most of these days are so far north, at the entrance to the family crypt. 

Emotions sway in rapid fluctuations. He has seen many of his friends now lose their fathers; and all react in various ways. It does not teach him how to do this though, how to process the turning of time, of inevitability. 

He and his father have never seen eye to eye, and never more obviously than in the years leading up to his passing. His father is the source of the majority of the pain in his life, both inflicted by him and his negligence, and by Sylvain’s terrible methods of coping. It’s taken half his life to date of working day after day to undo though, and he’s still not there. It still penetrates, captures him when idle for no reason. 

And yet…

His heart aches. Aches with a loss he should not feel, for the few snippets of times his father acted as he should have. For the fact he ruled his people well, stood steadfast during the war and beyond, giving aid to those who asked for it. He is not a man that Sylvain sees as a hero, as a person he wants to emulate. His father was in his own way, lost in the systems of his time, and Sylvain knows how easy it is to go with the tide, and how difficult it is to slam through. 

But he’s done it. And his father never approved. 

“Sylvain, it’s starting to snow.” 

Sylvain exhales, a frozen fog stuttering outwards as his chest tightens. He cannot turn to the voice but it doesn’t matter, for footsteps make their way forward until Felix is standing beside him staring at the crypt. 

“He’s gone,” Felix says, and that tightening Sylvain’s chest increases, pulses with a wave of loss so strong, gone but a moment later. 

“He is,” Sylvain says, the words choking as they escape. 

Felix says nothing more, but warmth surrounds his gloved hand an instant later. Sylvain closes his eyes, the bite of winter stinging his face as he squeezes the hand in his once. Perhaps too hard really; a lifeline that he doesn’t under why he needs but it’s offered and he obliges.

“I should hate him,” Sylvain says. 

It comes out without thought, but rings so true in the open. This man ruined his life in many ways, shaping him to be his own worst enemy. Sylvain has done many things in his life he regrets, will always regret. Treating people, especially the women he knew in his teenage years, appallingly. He does not remove that from himself; his actions were his and no one else's, and he should feel the guilt and burden of their weight. 

But without this father's hand, he does not know if he would have had his beliefs. Without his father’s blind eye at Miklan’s torments, his childhood could have been different. Perhaps his brother would be here too, standing beside him at the family grave. 

“But you don’t,” Felix says. 

And that is another truth speared open. Sylvain doesn’t. He never will. And he hates that conflict inside of him. It would be so much easier if he could, but that is not what he feels. He doesn’t know how he feels or if he ever will fully understand that. 

His eyes blur. It hurts really, to cry in such frigid weather. It hurts to cry in general. 

“Sylvain,” Felix murmurs, moving from his side to stand before him, as if he can shield him from the pain of the loss behind them. He reaches up, gloved hands coming to cradle his face, tears spilling without care. 

“You are a wonderful man, Sylvain. And that’s despite of him. He did not deserve you for a son,” Felix says, all bite but not at him, and that works in some ways. Felix can be angry at his father, an emotion he has expressed many a time, and Sylvain will let him. 

Felix’s hands bring him down, as Sylvain hiccups once, their foreheads resting together. 

“I love you. But you can’t stay out here. It’s freezing, and it won’t do any good, you beautiful idiot,” he grumbles, and Sylvain’s mouth trembles. 

“I’m crying my eyes out here Felix, even I know you can’t think I’m beautiful,” he says, and Felix shakes his head against him. 

“You’re always beautiful, and stop pretending you don’t know it,” he says, not letting go, and Sylvain can feel the smile even as his tears mar his vision. 

They part slowly, returning to their previous positions. Sylvain knows he’ll go back inside soon, but he lingers allowing his tears to run their course. The wind curls around them and beside him, Felix shivers and that is what it takes to break him from his reverie. He turns, muscles seem to be frozen as solid as the ground beneath them, Felix looking up at him through hollow eyes. 

He’s exhausted. They both are. His father’s passing had been lingering, a long month of trial and error before acceptance of what could not be done. Sylvain cannot help but lean towards Felix, kiss him gently just once before taking his hand and tugging. 

“Let’s go back inside,” he says, voice steadier than before, but Felix just watches him, as if there is something Sylvain has neglected to account for hovering in the shadows. But then he nods, and marches forward, pulling Sylvain with him as if it had been his idea all along. It reminds him so much of Felix as a child that he laughs, the sound escaping true and real. 

It makes Sylvain smile to himself as they traipse back to the house, which looms suddenly, blocked by the incoming haze of snow. Winter is settling on Gautier; Felix really should ride to Fraldarius today or tomorrow, lest he be kept here for weeks until the days clear. The thought though makes his chest close up again, and it’s with a hazy mind he stumbles into the house. 

“Let’s order tea, we’ll take it in your rooms,” Felix says, teeth chattering, and speaking quietly to Sylvain valet, who nods in kind understanding as Sylvain’s mind tries to catch up with his continuously frayed and frantic thoughts. 

_I don’t want to let you go_ , he thinks as Felix turns, brushing the flecks of snow from his coat, beckoning him to come closer, to stay within the warmth. And Sylvain wonders if today might be the right time to move one aspect forward, as another part of his life ends. 

* * *

**+1**

It’s early. Sylvain can tell by the way the light makes patterns on the sheets, dappled and bright, scorching in ways that sting his eyes and force him into wakefulness. He blinks a few times, the room coming into view as his eyes water. 

His body feels sluggish in waking, a long night of precious restfulness so reluctant to let him go. It’s always this way after travelling, despite having arrived early evening, he is still bone weary from long time riding. But he comes to, piece by piece, feeling the warmth of the sheets battling off the last of winter’s chill, the familiar signs of Felix’s chambers and most importantly, the man himself, curled up into Sylvain so much so he’s almost resting on top of him. 

Sylvain grins, blinking his husband into focus. Almost one year wed, one year of united territories and yet he is still not used to the sight of the flash of silver on Felix’s hand. It fractures the dawnlight, sparkling and chasing the light where his arm grips onto Sylvain. His own gold band sits on his finger, a happy weight he can feel now he’s started to notice Felix’s. 

As if on cue, Felix begins to stir, and grimaces just like Sylvain must have done only moments before. Sylvain laughs and turns over so Felix rolls with him, soft and pliant in half sleep, curling into him so Sylvain is blocking out the light. 

“Forgot to close the curtains, damn it,” Felix mutters, voice deep and grainy. 

“We can get up and do that,” Sylvain reminds him, and Felix grumbles unintelligibly, holding onto Sylvain in his usual vise-like grip which is a clear signal of exactly how he feels about that. 

Sylvain laughs and kisses the top of his head. It’s not as if they have much to do today, no reason to force themselves up and into the thick of it. But he knows Felix will be restless, always has been. Now he’s awake it will be precious time before he decides productivity is necessary, probably to train or read through papers. 

Some things never change. Even so long after the war, habits are ingrained, part of them. But their routines fit around these new selves, ever flowing and twisting, becoming something new with pieces of the old. 

Sylvain yawns and closes his eyes, hoping to snooze at least a little before Felix inevitably drags himself and probably Sylvain out of bed. It’s just as he feels he may be drifting, that the sensation of a finger on his skin pulls him back. He keeps his eyes closed though as Felix traces his brow, then slowly drags down to his nose, his lips, his chin. Almost tickling in the gentleness, he then lets more fingers join as he loops around, creating a pathway upwards across his cheek and into his hairline, Sylvain’s eyes finally opening and lips pulling into a smile as Felix rests his hand in Sylvain’s hair. 

“Checking I’m still in one piece? Not grown too old yet,” he says with a wink, and Felix scoffs, smiling a little too. 

There are slight lines that appear with the pull of his cheek, crinkling around the eyes. ‘Laughter lines’ they call them, and Sylvain is in love with each slightly forming mark. Smiles have never been Felix’s forte, but he has grown into them with these changes, small gifts Sylvain sees now more than ever. 

“I love you,” Felix says, startling him. Almost as if he could read Sylvian’s mind and throws it back to him, counters his thoughts with his own declarations. 

He leans forward and kisses Felix, just a tiny press of lips. “I love you, too. What brought that on?” he says, for while Felix has certainly declared it before, privately and formally, it is more often his actions that speak louder than language. 

Felix shrugs, tucking his hair out of his eyes. It’s growing again, although he cut it shorter than it’s ever been this summer. His own experiment, of being something new. 

“You looked good, here. In my bed,” he says, sly and with meaning, a declaration of heat that Sylvain is more than inclined to take him up on soon. 

“I do, huh?” he says, meeting him head to head, as always. 

But despite the teasing, Felix’s face moves to seriousness. “You do. You look beautiful this morning. In the sun, waking up. Here with me.” 

It’s not the first time Felix has called Sylvain beautiful. It’s not the first time he’s meant it sincerely. All of his life, Sylvain has tried to fight against beauty and all the bad that’s come with it, all the ways it’s been used as manipulation and merit, all the times it’s been a mask he’s donned to do and say awful things. A curse and not a blessing, a device and not a fact. 

But. Now, here in this moment, for the first time he understands. Waking up in a life he’d created, through work and want and care. Next to the person he loves, in a bed they share, in a moment without purpose other than to say what they mean to one another. In the morning sunlight so blinding and brilliant, he does think: this is beautiful. And perhaps he too, can be beautiful in some sense; in loving Felix, in caring for their people, in building a future together that’s the best their hands can make. 

So he smiles and leans in, kissing Felix deep and with all the love he can muster for as long as he can go without breathing. Felix has always seen the beauty in him, the potential for what he holds inside and what he wants to be. 

Now, so many years in the future, that beauty is there for him to see too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, come find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EnlacingL/)
> 
> And find the wonderful Lumi [here](http://www.twitter.com/lumilotte/)


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